Roughly 25 years ago, they were already wearing Michael Jordan’s jersey in the Congo. Isn’t that a kick? That’s pretty much the only evidence you need to understand his impact: In Central African villages where they didn’t have running water or cable TV, they knew who he was, and even Bantu tribesmen knew what No. 23 represented — which makes it hard to overstate the impact of his global reach.

So let’s be clear. No matter where you are from, you probably have some vivid images the moment you are asked to consider the first 50 years of his extraordinary life. We’re no different. Here are five:

1. The Kid.

Very early in his career, a skinny kid seated in the basement locker room of Chicago Stadium, post-shootaround — already the talk of the league, and the target of veteran bullying. Such as? “The other day, Xavier McDaniel went like this,” he explained, as he placed his finger on my chin and gave it a flick — hard — to snap my head to the side. “It’s a message,” he shrugged, “like, ‘You’re mine, sucka.’” And your response was? “’Bout two plays later, I dunked on him, and killed him the rest of the night.” Two takeaways from that: It was basically the last time anyone could sit in an empty locker room with him, because soon every step he would take included a rapturous entourage; and it’s hard to recall another opponent as bold and stupid to follow X-Man’s example.

2. The Brand.

By year two, it became clear that David Stern’s league was choreographed by the viper-like genius of Jordan’s agent David Falk. And the first commandment was this: Nothing hurts the brand. A serious gambling addiction? Nothing to see here; move along. Prized consumer goods produced in sweatshops that kids literally kill one another to own? Sorry, collateral damage. Affairs with ladies who were hand-delivered to his hotel room by NBA referees? That’s personal, no biggie. Union-buster wannabe, shameless corporate shill, political compromiser, malicious egoist? Have a Gatorade and pipe down already: Global sports marketing is here to stay, and so is rationalizing the aberrant behavior of the vendor.

3. The Comeback.

A surreal moment, just a week out of retirement. Even the uniform (No. 45) seemed out of place. He personally thought that March 28, 1995, was "about my love for Madison Square Garden," and it’s true: He was always a fanatical captive of the great court, always catching the wave of the building’s emotion like a surfer. But this was a different kind of crusade. He scored 55 on four defenders, made the deciding pass to Bill Wennington for a two-point victory and, when it was over, he had thoroughly messed with the Knicks’ heads — again. We know this because Dave Checketts admitted it. "When he came back from baseball, I thought, ‘Well, he’ll be rusty. He hasn’t played. This is one we should win,’ " the MSG president spat. "And when it was over, I said, ‘This isn’t fair. This is just not fair.’"

4. The Will.

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We all saw him roll out of his sickbed to dominate Game 5 of the ’97 Finals. But pity that it was pre-HD. Because if you sat on the second row of the scorer’s table in Utah that night, and watched him go by 100-120 times, he was more than just slack-jawed and miserable as he dropped 38 on the Jazz. His complexion, truthfully, had faded into a sickly grayish pallor. We didn’t know whether that description would look bad in print, so the verdict was left up to the fellow seated beside me, Phil Taylor, the superb Sports Illustrated writer. "I just typed ‘dusty,’ " he said. "But gray it is."

5. The Crescendo.

Game 6 of the ’98 Finals, of course — the push-off on Bryon Russell, the textbook release, the hand raised and victorious pose frozen in time, like he knew it would be the enduring image for an entire generation. That 45-point game was so aesthetically beautiful, it deserved its own string section.